


The promise you made (and never intended to keep)

by tsurakutemo



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-06
Updated: 2013-01-06
Packaged: 2017-11-23 20:34:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/626263
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tsurakutemo/pseuds/tsurakutemo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fingon lives in denial.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The promise you made (and never intended to keep)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [forsakenlemur](https://archiveofourown.org/users/forsakenlemur/gifts).



Findekáno refuses to believe it at first.

He lives in denial as the smoke rises, high, high up towards the sky. He lives in denial as the fire flickers orange and yellow and red red red.

Red like  _his_ hair, but brighter. His hair only looks like it is burning when the sun is out. Or perhaps when the fire shines on it. Is he amidst the flames? Is he standing near them, feeling their heat?

He lives in denial even as his father rages and screams and threatens anyone who tries to calm him down with their own barely restrained anger, and he thinks that he would like to react like that, too. He would like to scream, and insult the Valar and insult  _him_.

Nelyafinwë.

But he doesn’t. Instead he sinks to his knees and stares, his eyes still wide, his hands shaking. He stares across the water and makes himself believe he can see him, looking back at him and ignoring the tumults on that side. He makes himself believe Nelyafinwë hasn’t betrayed him and left him behind until he wonders if maybe Nelyafinwë is burning in the flames and then he lands on his hands and knees and throws up on the ground.

His hands still shake. His arms shake. His body shakes. Blood still lines the edge of his sword that he has dropped at his side, and for a moment he wishes nothing but to run himself through. Or perhaps Nelyafinwë, had he been there.

But he isn’t. He  _isn’t_ , and the sob leaves him before he can stop it. A hand grips his arm and he’s dragged to his feet and a hand strikes him. He looks up at his father the king until Nolofinwë shakes him and Findekáno’s feet give out again. Nolofinwë sinks down with him and embraces him, but he isn’t shaking. Not like Findekáno is.

He doesn’t think his father will ever shake like his heart has been penetrated by ten thousand screams of the dying and left to rot on the ground after it has been carved out of his chest. He has not lost his other half like Findekáno has. His half-brother, yes, but not his other half. Not the one who loved him the most. Not the one who would wake him with smiles and kisses in the morning, not the one whose skin would be warm beneath his touches after the sun caressed it. Not the one who would gasp his name and drag his nails against his back.

Findekáno cannot look at him.

His gaze shifts over his father’s shoulder, where the fire still burns brightly.  _nelyafinwë burned_ , he thinks absently.  _with passion and belief and courage_.

His laughter rings in his ears.  _káno, you are slow!_  Trying a little harder always gained him a kiss.  _you should not eat that much of your mother’s cooking, lest you become like me!_  Findekáno always smiled at that.  _i always want to be like you, nelyo. i love you_. The laughter turns cruel.  _i will never leave you._ The voice mocks him.

He cannot smile now.


End file.
